


Body Shots

by blackbird



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-10-15
Updated: 2004-10-15
Packaged: 2017-10-16 03:52:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/168122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackbird/pseuds/blackbird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry, Draco, and a bottle of Jose's finest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Body Shots

He sits in the cantina and contemplates an order of pork, and a tequila with lime. His skin has turned a dark golden brown and he decides that he likes it. Anything that helps hide the mark on his arm is fine by him.

The tequila comes and he slams it back, closing his eyes and letting it burn his throat before he sucks on the lime, the tart juice bursting on his tongue. He wants to savor it, because he knows that he'll have to leave soon. The magic here is weak, but it's getting stronger everyday and that's how he knows they're coming.

He hears the creak of the bench across from him and looks up. The glamours they've been using are strong, but nothing will hide those eyes, green like the rind that's sitting on the table in front of him.

"Did you order me one?" he asks, their hands brushing as he reaches for the salt.

Without speaking, he pushes the other shot glass across the table, a silent challenge. Those lips quirk up with a smile, so rare these days and he basks in it, not wanting to forget it. He gasps when he feels Harry's tongue, hot and wet, swipe over the inside of his wrist and a tingle rushes over his skin as salt follows, spilling onto the scarred table top. Another lick and he can't help but stare at the line of his throat as he swallows, wanting to burn that motion into his brain. He holds out the lime, and when the tips of his fingers disappear into Harry's mouth, dinner is last thing on his mind.

Deliberately, he slips the salt shaker into his pocket and Harry casts a stasis charm on the limes in the bowl in front of him. He drops a stack of coins on the table before he takes the bottle and heads upstairs, Harry's hand heavy and warm in his.

The hall is narrow and dim, and the sounds of other people doing exactly what they are about to do trickles out through the paper-thin walls. He feels Harry squeeze his hand slightly and they share an unspoken laugh. There's a grungy anonymity here, no one asks questions and that's why he picked it. It's as far from the stately columns of Malfoy Manor as you can get.

He uses a key to open the door, since using too much of his own magic is risky and easily traced. They don't turn on the lights, letting the moonlight filter in through the stained, threadbare curtains. A whisper behind him causes him to look up, and suddenly his reflection shows white blond hair and gray eyes in place of the muddy brown and blue that was there a minute ago.

In the mirror he watches Harry pull his shirt over his head, boyish awkwardness long replaced by an easy grace. He envies him, for being that comfortable in his own skin. Of course, being on the run keeps him from being comfortable in anyone's skin, especially his own.

Tugging his own shirt off and tossing it onto the room's only chair, he turns around. In this light, the angles of Harry's body are sharp and definite; his scars clear on pale skin. He takes a step forward and leans his head on Harry's shoulder, breathing in the smell of skin, sweat, soap, and something else, something indefinable but undoubtedly home.

His tongue darts out, tracing a long, damp line over a sharp collarbone and he feels Harry's hand grasp at his hip. With a flick of his wrist, the salt goes shimmering down and he reverses direction, catching each grain. The tequila still burns, but now the burn spreads down his torso and across his hip to where Harry's fingers are digging in, leaving bruises that he'll stare at in the mirror days later.

He never gets the lime, because Harry's mouth is on his and all he can taste is him mixed with the alcohol and he's not sure which taste is making him drunk now. The back of his knees hit the bed and he manages to keep a hold of the bottle, barely. Harry's moving now, hot breath on his ear and hips pinning him to the thin mattress. At the hollow of his throat, he lets go of the bottle and tries not to squirm as Harry tips it ever-so-slightly, the liquid pooling there for a split second before he laps it up, leaving him clutching at the flimsy sheets.

Fingers slide over his ribs, down his side and under the waist of his trousers, but not quite close enough and when a strangled moan escapes him, Harry smiles. It's a lazy, warm smile that makes him think of grass under his back and sun reflecting off a shimmering lake. It was the last perfect day he could remember.

The feel of Harry's tongue on his navel yanks him back to the present. The bottle pressed against his side tilts when he tries to shift his hips and get Harry moving downward. Tequila splashes across his stomach and the smile changes to a wicked grin as Harry catches all the stray drops, fingers nimbly undoing his fly at the same time. He hears glass shattering against the grainy wood floor but he can't force himself to care.

He takes a slow breath as Harry wraps a hand around his cock, twisting his wrist as he strokes up and down. Squeezing his eyes shut, he lets the sensation wash over him, every nerve tingling when he feels the wet heat of Harry's mouth surround him. His hips thrust up and he anchors his hand in thick, black hair, letting words slip from his mouth. Words like _please_ , _again_ , _more_ , _need_ , _love_ , words he hardly ever thinks about, let alone says these days.

There's fire curling in his veins and he can feel how close he is when Harry stops and slithers back up his body, mouth on his and their hands both pulling off the last of the clothes between them. He bites back a hiss as their skin touches, the feeling is almost overwhelming. Harry's clever fingers are skimming downward again - over his hip, down the crease of his thigh, just past the heat of his cock, and he whispers the spell so softly he almost doesn't hear it. Then Harry's fingers are there, stretching and stroking him until he can slide inside, and he can't feel anything but heat or taste anything but lime and salt and Harry in his mouth and the fire is burning so high, he thinks it might burn right through him. Above him, Harry is moving faster, harder, the hand on him jerks and he lets go, coming so hard he sees stars behind his eyes. Harry is right behind him, muscles tensing and uncoiling again and his name on his breath.

More whispers clean up the mess on the bed and the bottle on the floor and he feels the steady, even breathing behind him as he sleeps soundly for the first time in months.

**

In the morning, he feels a breeze from the open window but the distinct wards are familiar, so he pushes away the panic that woke him. Sheet wrapped around him, he goes to the table by the door. The salt is there and a shot glass, a slice of lime on the edge. A magically altered passport sits next to it, a plane ticket for that afternoon and a date on a slip of parchment, three weeks from today. Licking the back of his hand, he swallows the hair of the dog and smiles through the burn, wondering how he's going to last those twenty-one days.  


**Author's Note:**

> This is post-Hogwarts and Voldemort, but the war's not quite over yet. For [](http://circe-tigana.livejournal.com/profile)[**circe_tigana**](http://circe-tigana.livejournal.com/), who wanted more. Thanks to [](http://lunasky.livejournal.com/profile)[**lunasky**](http://lunasky.livejournal.com/) for the superfast beta.


End file.
